


All Yours

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Boyking!Sam, Demon!Dean, Demons, King of Hell, Knifeplay, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester has always had a penchant for knives, and that has transfered over to when he has become the King of Hell, with his faithful demon brother at his side, indulging him and his every whim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Yours

**Author's Note:**

> a birthday present for dustandhalos  
> come find me on tumblr! @ GhostGarrison

Sam has a penchant for knives.

It's not really news to him, not even surprising at all. Hell, with all the experience he has had with them, they're really old hat.

But the excitement he feels is the same. It has been for years. Every single time he picks up a blade--be it a machete, Ruby's knife, or even a pocket knife--there's a jolt of electricity that flies up his arm when his fingers wrap around a knife's handle, sparking this feeling that he just can't ignore.

Sometimes he just has to act on this feeling, has to go out and actually use the knives he's come to wield with great skill, with great love. It's like an itch under his skin, bothering him, making his skin crawl until he goes out and takes a hit to settle this addiction he has.

Tonight it's some poor innocent soul from Alabama, a brown-haired woman who sold her soul and afterlife for the murder of her abusive family. He felt for the girl, he really did, but a deal's a deal. She's the property of Hell now, she's exactly where she's supposed to be.

That is, hung on the bloodied hooks of the Rack and under Sam's knife.

All demons exit the room quickly and quietly when he enters. He can't help but smirk--his legion, his demons, his _Hell_ is in fear of him. Just how it should be.

She's already crying--such a shame, Sam's always enjoyed the look of the first tear--when he decides to take a step forwards into the very center of the room. He inspects the knives and torture devices his demons were using before he arrived, shaking his head slightly and clicking his tongue at the array.

"These just won't do, will they?' Sam asks, voice light despite the situation. Well, there's no need to act like _he's_ the one on the Rack. He laughs to himself, reaching to his back pocket and pulling out a rather large folding knife.

It's one of his favorites: wide, easy to clean and hold, sharp enough to cut through flesh like butter.  
Which is exactly what he intends to do.

It doesn't have to be a slow process, but Sam has come to learn that he likes to torture leisurely, enjoying every minute of it, every cry he draws from the woman. There's nothing better than the smell of fresh blood and someone begging.

He's really only just begun his evening when a low-level demon, named Pithius if his memory serves correct, re-enters the room. Sam spins on his heels immediately, his arms up to his elbows stained red from the woman's blood, the steel knife still gripped in his hand.

"I'm hoping this is important," Sam chides him in annoyance, that familiar distant itch creeping back in, the one that tells him to carve and slice and use the knife.

Pithius merely gives him a small bow, speaking simply. "My King, _he_ has returned."

Suddenly the woman doesn't seem so entertaining anymore. The itch grows stronger, almost unbearably so, but it's now focused on one person and one person only.

Dean.

His consort. His demon. His right hand man.

His _beloved brother_.

Sam doesn't even have to ask Pithius, he already knows exactly where Dean is, especially after an expedition to Earth. Dean'll be tired, probably skulking around their bedroom, still tense and amped up from whatever he accomplished on his journey to the surface.

He hands the knife to the demon, nodding to Pithius to continue his work. The demon takes the knife, grips it in his hand with much less confidence than Sam, less grace and fluidity.

"Don't disappoint me," Sam tells the demon before reaching out into thin, blood-scented air and using his glorious gift of power to open a rift.

"Yes, my King," Pithius says curtly just as Sam steps through the rift, transporting himself straight into his bedroom, his own personal subspace of Hell reserved for only two.

When he apparates into the room, he nearly bumps into Dean, who is pacing the perimeter of the room out of habit. It takes one second for Sam to notice that Dean is unbearably tense, shoulders hunched and face twisted up, eyes still black from whatever kill-high he's riding.  
Dean immediately springs into action, tossing his fists around in an attempt to take down his sneaky attacker.

" _Down_ , Dean," he commands, dodging his brother's skilled blows. Dean is fast and strong, more capable than any demon in Hell, but still underneath Sam's sheer strength and the pulse of his powers. " _Dean_."

Still flooded with black, Dean's eyes soften around the edges, obviously realizing that it's Sam who snuck up on him. He doesn't let up though, only to throw another punch with a smirk on his face.

Sam dodges it easily, grasping his brother's wrist in his hand and twisting it behind his back. Dean lets out a gasp, relenting slightly to Sam's strength and allowing himself to be bent onto the bed. He breathes hard through his nose, gritting his teeth as he stares wildly up at Sam who hovers above him. He snaps up a leg, attempting to kick Sam between the legs but he's too quick.

"You want to play it that way?" Sam asks forcefully, pressing Dean hard into the mattress. "Huh, Dean? You want me to hurt you?"

His brother snarls into the bedspread, jerking against Sam's grip on his wrists. Feral--not an unfamiliar sight, but it means that Dean has gone on a rampage tonight.

"Riled up tonight, aren't you?" Sam asks, kind of mockingly. "Whatcha do tonight? Kill a few people?"

Dean jerks in his grip, still giving no reply.

"More than that? A dozen? Twenty?"

Dean goes slightly slack.

"Ah, that many. My good Dean," Sam says, softer as he straddles Dean and leans in close, biting the column of Dean's neck hard enough to draw blood.

His brother flinches and gasps, but it's of both pain and pleasure. Dean's always been into this--into receiving pain--it's always gotten him hard, even when they were human and hunters. Sam has made sure to capitalize on it ever since.

"My good, sweet Dean," Sam continues to coo in Dean's ear, adjusting their positions so his knees pin down his brother's forearms against the mattress, immobilizing him.

Dean's already splattered with blood from other people, his victims of the evening. It gets Sam going, getting hard already and he steels himself to not get too carried away from his goal.

He reaches over to the nightstand, straining a long arm to reach into the drawer there, hand searching around to what he knows what's there. His fingers wrap around the handle of Ruby's knife--the demon-killing knife--and pulls it out to wave in front of Dean's face.

His brother's eyes widen at the sight of it, knowing fully what it does and what it'll be used for. Dean doesn't struggle as Sam carefully cuts his tee shirt open, cold metal just grazing his skin and leaving a small stripe of red that beads at the surface. He hisses at the contact, at the sting of the blade cutting his skin.

Sam rubs his fingers across the cut, smearing the blood across the skin there and dirtying his fingertips. He savors the look of Dean's blood staining his own skin, his mind already looking forward to seeing more.

"You'll look so pretty," Sam says, tracing across Dean's pale chest with bloodied fingers, leaving small faint trails, "with my name carved into your chest."

"All yours, Sammy," Dean breathes out, finally. "All yours."


End file.
